The Garden Nymph
by PheonixFeather10
Summary: What if all gardens had a nymph that lived in them? A oneshot on the nymph of the Secret Garden.
_This is a story that I wrote quite a while ago. It is the first oneshot I have ever written. Please review!_

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The Garden Nymph

I wait. The world is quiet. Then there is a little rustle. A wren sings in the branches of the old, ancient trees. The the dead rose bushes crinkle in the predawn breeze. Slowly but surely, the sun arises up up up into the grey sky. It is the beginning of yet another day. The old swing creeks eerily.

Old Robin looks up at the sky. He knows that it's a new day. His little black eyes look around, peering for worms that are silly enough to poke their heads out of the soil. Bobbing around, he performs his morning dance, then spreads his wings and flies away. There is always better food outside of the garden.

The day goes on, with barely a shower. I sigh. This is one of my bad days. I really feel quite ill. The old gardener has not been visiting for many a day. My poor roses are suffering terribly. But there is nothing I can do, for I am too weak to prune. Anyway, it is not my job, and I do not know how. All I can do is walk around my garden, wishing that someone would come before it is too late.

At midday I climb to the top of the ivy covered wall. If only someone could see me. But they cannot. The sun beats down on my transparent body. My dress is quite ragged – for I have not had access to fresh petals and leaves in a long time. It is barely kept together, even with a bit of magic.

During the early afternoon I wait. Up in the tall branches of the tallest tree I sit and wait. I do this every day. I should do it more – I have a theory that the harder and longer I wait, the sooner someone will come. But no one ever does.

I am undernourished. Of course I don't eat real food, but if the garden was thriving as it once was, I would absorb the love and beauty of the flowers and plants. I can remember days when all was as it should be. The garden was cared for, and loved – which meant I was too. Now, it is forgotten about. The door to it is always kept locked, and no one can see the door, either, for it is now covered in ivy. It is Spring now, and the garden should be thriving and growing, and the song would be playing more beautiful than ever. But it is not.

The clouds smile down at me. There are some nice ones above me today – not mean and cruel, like yesterday. It rained terribly yesterday. The clouds smile down at me, but do not understand. Clouds always were fickle. Old Robin tries to understand, but he is more busy with his life and finding worms. I am happy that one member of this garden, at least, is thriving. There are some days where Old Robin is the only one who keeps me alive.

I am tired. I am exhausted. My garden is undernourished; I am undernourished. Until someone comes, I am at risk of fading away. The risk grows every single day. I try not to dwell on the thought, but it is always there, in the back of my mind.

I sit on the top of the ivy covered wall, and I wait. I wait and I wait. I do not think that I will ever be done with waiting. At last I climb down from the wall and sit on the old swing, swaying with the breeze. My beautiful garden droops. It depresses me to look at it, but there is nothing else to look at. Nothing but my dry, empty old home.

Just when I was feeling at my lowest, all of a sudden, something happens. I feel more... alive. Such as I have not felt in a long time. My feet almost want to start dancing again.

There is a creak in the corner of the garden where the door is. I slowly approach it, shaking with nervous energy. The door slowly opens, and inside walks a thin, pale girl. She looks sickly, and sour. I know that she needs me as much as I need her.

She walks through, looking around her in awe. There is not much to see, but I suppose that finding a secret garden would be exciting to any child. The trees all look dead, for their nymphs went to sleep long ago. However, only three of them are actually dead – the others are only resting. Little promising shoots are scattered on the ground. In the Spring they will come out.

The girl walks slowly about the whole garden, examining everything. At last she sits down next to the little pond that is now murky, and starts to thin out the little bulb shoots. I hover about her excitedly. I help her by breathing on her work. She looks pleased with herself, and I am ecstatic. She does not show much skill, but she makes up for it in enthusiasm. I am ever so joyful. My garden is looking happier than it has in years.

Suddenly, I hear a note. A beautiful, clear note. It makes me jump, for it is a sound that I have not heard in ever so long. It is coming from the fresh earth that the girl is turning up, and the little bulbs that are spreading out their roots, greatful for the room. The garden is singing again, after years of silence. The notes are only low, and of the same pitch, but more will come. My wait is finally over.

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I am happy nowadays. I hover about the garden, bringing the work to life and listening to the singing of the earth. I have companions now, for the tree nymphs have awoken and play with each other. Their laughter echoes through the garden.

Many people come and go through the door in the wall nowadays. The little girl comes every day, and she brings her friends with her. Occasionally the man who used to come every day to the garden with his girl-bride comes too. I think it is hard for him, but I try to make it easier for him to bear it, by singing and dancing around him.

The little girl was the one who made this all possible. Without her, I would still be locked in endless waiting. Who knows, if she had come but a year later, it may have been too late. She will always have my thanks. Perhaps, one day, if she loves me enough, she may catch a glimpse of me. But those fleeting glimpses are hard to come by, for she will see me only if she catches me off guard – and that is a hard thing to do.

No one can see me. But I can see them. I dance and sing all day, bringing joy to the little garden. Old Robin still lives here with his mate, and the Old Gardener comes every day to clean my garden up. It feels good. I am just like I used to be, if not more so. I am content, so my garden is beautiful. I do not think that it is possible for a garden nymph to be more happy, for I have never heard such a beautiful song from a garden.


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